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Wednesday, April 24, 2013

S is for stretchmarks

Dear body,
We haven't always had the same idea of what you were supposed to be like. My first want for you was boobs, a butt, thighs, and hips. A real woman's curves. It took years and several cheeseburgers, but eventually you complied. I could no longer see the spread of my hip bones, jutting out like the wings of a flesh colored butterfly.

Then it was my nose, my teeth, my eyes, the color of my hair, the length of my legs, how sparse my eyebrows are, and that one weird mole that rests inside the hollow of my neck. Every time I looked in the mirror I just saw large pores and crooked teeth.

I've never really thought of myself as a pretty girl, but this isn't a letter about my self-esteem. This is a letter about my stretchmarks.

I became dissatisfied with the curves that I demanded of you. Maybe it was because we jiggled with every step we took, maybe it's because nothing fit right, or maybe it's because I ate all my sadness and whenever I looked down it just made me want a brownie.

So, you were nice enough to comply. I'm starting to be thin again.

But now, you're riddled with these shimmery white stripes. My calves, hips, breasts, and butt are now marred with stretchmarks.

And I really don't mind them.

These are our stretchmarks. They go for miles and miles to explain the
woman we've grown into. The body of the child we've left behind. They are pink and
red and silvery white, stretched around those parts people like to touch.
They are ugly but they are the evidence of maturity. I look at them and I am proud.